


Little Woman

by fringedweller



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-11
Updated: 2011-06-11
Packaged: 2017-10-20 08:11:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/210639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fringedweller/pseuds/fringedweller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1)This is in reply to the kink meme, for the prompt requesting McCoy and a severely reduced Chapel with UST and other naughty things. Hope you enjoy, anon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Woman

Ion storms. It was always fucking _ion storms_. Never mind that in the past eighteen months ion storms have been responsible for splitting the captain’s consciousness in two, de-evolving a security team into pygmy marmosets and crashing four shuttlecraft. For some reason, there was always a desperate need to complete a high-risk mission in the middle of an ion storm.

As the call to the transporter room came over his communicator, McCoy knew that it was ion storm-based. It was only when he was half-way there that he remembered that Christine had been planet-side that afternoon, and that it was likely that she was the one who needed help. His quick jog became a flat-out run.

The transporter room was full of yellow and red shirts, but the only people in blue were Spock and himself. Scotty and Chekov had their heads bent over the control panel, muttering feverishly to themselves. Jim and Spock were crouched down on the platform, staring down at a puddle of blue and black clothing. Spock was running a tricorder over the clothes, and his eyebrow was raised to the “intellectually curious, but not life-threatening” position. Jim had extended a finger to prod at the clothing, but whipped it away as soon as McCoy entered the room.

“It’s ok, Bones,” the captain began nervously. “She’s not hurt.”

An aggrieved squawk came from the pile of clothes. As McCoy got nearer he saw a flash of pale skin dive underneath the material. Spock gravely handed him the tricorder, and McCoy scanned the information carefully.

A human woman, early thirties, pulse and respiration slightly elevated but within normal parameters, adrenaline release indicative of a ‘flight or fight’ scenario, brain waves fine, blood pressure acceptable....

Christine’s readings were all good. Except for the fact that she was nowhere to be seen, his head nurse and not-so-secret object of his affections was fine.

“Where is she, Jim? What the hell happened?”

Kirk sent a glance towards Scotty, who shrugged his shoulders in confusion. Chekov was shoulders-deep inside the control panel, hissing with pain as sparks flew from components.

“Primary analysis indicates that the ion storm interrupted the transport beam containing Lieutenant Chapel. Although Commander Scott was able to reassemble the matter stream, the ionic affects have decreased the lieutenant’s physical stature.”

McCoy frowned, unwilling to believe what Spock had said.

“She’s shrunk?”

“To approximately six inches in height.”

“And let me tell you,” a small voice piped up from near his feet, “six inches is _really_ not all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Size isn’t everything,” McCoy said automatically, his brain still engaged in the verbal battle that he and Chapel called ‘banter’ and the rest of Sickbay called ‘foreplay’.

Chapel emerged from the heap of material, holding the sleeve of her tunic around her to protect her modesty. She was like a tiny Venus in the shell, and the decrease in her height did absolutely nothing to hide the voluptuous curves of her body.

McCoy felt a sudden rush of embarrassment. It was like he was having impure thoughts about a child’s doll. He patted his hands over his uniform until he found his handkerchief. He crouched down and handed it to her.

“Here,” he said gruffly. “You can use this to cover yourself with.”

At Chapel’s suspicious look, he said “It’s clean, woman! Take the damn thing!”

She took the cotton square awkwardly with one hand. Looking up at the three men, she raised her eyebrow and coughed pointedly.

“A little privacy, gentlemen?”

Spock, Kirk and McCoy turned around hastily as Christine unfolded the white material. A minute later she tugged on the hem of McCoy’s trousers.

“You can turn around now,” she said, with as much dignity as she could muster.

She had improvised a dress by the simple means of wrapping the material around her upper body and securing it by tucking it firmly into itself. Her shoulders were bare and her hair had come loose from its usual neat bun.

“Lift me up,” she commanded. “I’m tired of the view of your feet.”

She looked angelic, McCoy thought absently as he lowered his hand to the floor. She sat down, looking rather dubious at the arrangement, and McCoy brought his other hand around her to steady her.

He held his hands at waist-height, where Chapel sat straight-backed, as dignified as an empress.

“We’ll get to the bottom of this matter as soon as we can, lieutenant,” Kirk promised, looking uncharacteristically grave.

“Aye lass, don’t you worry. We’ll have you back to normal in no time,” Scotty added, bringing a hand down firmly onto the control panel, which let out a pathetic moan and lost power.

Chekov sent him a panicked look, and dived back under the panel again.

“I’ll take you to Sickbay, Chris,” McCoy said. “I want to run some tests.”

Christine twisted to stare up at him, unamused.

“What sort of tests could you possibly run?”

“Standard ones,” McCoy said firmly, hoping that his tone would stop any further argument.   
It didn’t.

“Standard ones? What standard ones? Where in the medical handbook does it list standard tests for crewmembers that have been unexpectedly shrunk in transporter accidents?”

Chapel stood up, wobbled slightly and then planted both hands on her hips. She glared up at him furiously. McCoy brought his hands up so they could look each other eye-to-eye.

“As if this is the first time we’ve had to re-write the handbook because of something strange happening. Do you remember the time Sulu got turned into a three year-old? Or the time the whole crew became inexplicably allergic to salt?”

Chapel made an annoyed sound, which McCoy knew from experience meant that she acknowledged his point but was too proud to admit it.

“Right then,” he said, ignoring the amused smirk of his best friend. “Sickbay it is. Contact us as soon as you discover anything, Jim.”

“You’ll be the first to know,” the captain replied, manfully struggling against the gale of laughter that was threatening to break out. The doctor left the room, cradling his arms against his chest carefully.

“Lieutenant Chapel’s alteration in height does not seem to have affected her personality,” Spock observed.

“No, McCoy’s pretty much as whipped as he’s always been,” Kirk said, shaking his head in disbelief at the way that his CMO and Head Nurse functioned. They ran the best Sickbay in the fleet, no question of that, but sooner or later they were going to have to give in to their rather obvious sexual chemistry.

The ship’s betting pool, that he had absolutely no official knowledge of, gave the best odds for another six months of unrelieved sexual tension in Sickbay. Kirk made a mental note to make another bet for some time in the next three weeks.

Unofficially, of course.

 

All the tests came back as normal, as Christine knew that they would. Normal, apart from the fact that she had lost five feet, four inches of height. Brain function, heart and lung function, muscle response time, everything was fine.

Except for the fact that she was tiny.

Wee, even.

An hour and a half after Len had carefully deposited her on the biobed in a private observation room, Christine’s patience with the situation was beginning to run out. She could feel a stress headache coming on, she was wearing a handkerchief and she was famished.

She knew that Len would be reluctant to give her any painkillers – there was no accurate way to gauge the effect that medication would have on her reduced form, and the force of the hypospray may well do more damage to her than good.

He did go to get her food though, and she imagined the delay was in finding a way to reduce the size of portions and plates. At this current moment in time, she was capable of doing a few laps in a soup bowl.

The door of the observation room hissed open, but instead of Len returning with food it turned out to be the rest of the Ladies Night core members.

Janice Rand gasped audibly, and clasped her hands to her mouth. Uhura scrutinised her very carefully before offering her a small wave. Gaila let out a high pitched squeal and rushed over to her bedside.

“You are the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen! Look at you Christine! You’re so small! You’re like a little doll! Can I pick you up?”

“No,” snapped Christine, irritably, dodging one finger that Gaila reached out to stroke her hair with. She physically slapped the other one away.

“Are you alright, Christine? Do you need anything?” Uhura offered as she came forward.

Christine slumped back onto the bed.

“Clothes,” she muttered. “I’m wearing a handkerchief at the moment, and it’s just not dignified. Could one of you sort me out something to wear?”

“I can do that!” Gaila said confidently. “I used to make clothes for my dolls when I was a child. Give me a few hours and I’ll have a whole wardrobe for you!”

“I need uniforms,” Christine said stubbornly. “I want to wear my uniform. I may only be six inches tall, but I’m still a Starfleet officer.”

“You’ll need a way to move around the ship,” Janice said thoughtfully. “And a way to open doors. I’ll work on getting something sorted out for you.”

“Thank you,” said Christine gratefully.

They stayed for a few more minutes, then disappeared when McCoy returned with a tray of food. The chefs in the mess hall had done their best with very small sandwiches and chopped-up finger foods. The science labs had donated tiny test-tubes to use as drinking glasses. Dessert was fresh fruit, and never before had Christine tried to eat a grape the size of her own head. McCoy did his best to keep his laughter inside, but couldn’t hold it back when a particularly juicy bite left moisture all over her face.

“Laugh away, McCoy,” she said darkly, using her makeshift dress to wipe her face clean of the sticky juice. “Just remember this when you have a stupid transporter accident and I’m the one laughing at _you_.”

He stopped sniggering at that, and a dark look came back over his handsome features.

“Those damn contraptions are more trouble than they’re worth,” he grumbled.

She walked over to the edge of the biobed they were using as a table, and touched his hand.

“I’ll be alright, Len,” she said seriously. “It may take a little time, but they’ll find a way to turn me back.”

“Damn right they will,” he growled, reaching out a finger to stroke along the side of her face. She sighed, and leaned into the gentle touch.

They weren’t stupid. They both knew what was going on, even if the rest of the ship thought they were oblivious. You didn’t have to have a degree in medicine to see the rather obvious affects of arousal on a male form, especially if you were both doing stock-take in a small storage room where brushing up against each other was unavoidable.

Similarly, she knew that her reaction times were a lot slower when he stood behind her to supervise a procedure, and there was no way that he could miss the way she shivered when he spoke quietly into her ear.

Flirting with each other, even if they were having a stand-up, knock down argument at the time, was fun. Shared glances, ‘accidental’ touches of the hand, heated banter – it all made the hours they logged in Sickbay more exciting. It gave Christine a spring to her step, and she was sure it was the reason that the usually surly doctor would lose his focus occasionally and smile off into the middle distance.

One of these days, they were going to have to do something about the tension between them. Give in to temptation and rip each other’s clothes off, finally say the words that they hadn’t got around to throwing at each other yet.

But not now, Christine decided, as McCoy extended his hand and she curled up into it. Certain...logistical problems to one side, she was just too damn tired to do anything other than sleep.

“Can you take me back to my room?” she asked, yawning. “I’m sleepy,” she added unnecessarily.

McCoy frowned again.

“I’m not wild about the idea of you being on your own at the moment,” he admitted. “You should stay here in Sickbay where we can monitor you.”

Christine blew a raspberry.

“Complaint duly noted,” he sighed, scooping her carefully into his palm. “Would you consider a compromise? Stay in my quarters, where I can keep an eye on you?”

Christine shook her head in mock-resignation.

“I don’t know, McCoy, the lengths you’ll go to get me alone in your room...”

She giggled at the surprised look on his face, which turned into a malicious smile as he carried her over to the small sink in the corner of the room.

“What’s that you say? You want a cold shower?” he said, flicking on a jet of icy water from the tap.

“No! I’m sorry! Your motives are both pure and honourable!” she shrieked, scrambling out of his hand and climbing up his arm to perch on his shoulder.

“That’s what I thought you said,” he smirked. Christine eyed his earlobe, wondering what the retaliation might be if she leant over and bit it. Well, maybe not _bite_. Nibble, possibly. Lave. Suck on.

McCoy was already out of the door and headed for the turbolift before Christine realised that this new room-sharing arrangement may not be as bad as it seemed. Hanging on tight, she went along for the ride.

 

She spent the first night in McCoy’s quarters on his couch. He folded up an old sweatshirt to form a sort of sleeping bag, and barricaded her in with more folded clothes. She fell asleep breathing in the clean, male smell that she had come to associate with him. Truth be told, it was one of the most comfortable places she had ever slept.

She awoke the next morning feeling warm and content. She was still only six inches tall, which was disappointing. She had had a vague idea that the transporter malfunction would have worn off by morning, and Len would have woken to find her draped in a handkerchief and not much else. As it was, it took her ten minutes to clamber over the safety barriers he had built up around her.

Len was a messy sleeper, sprawling his long limbs all over the bed. One arm dangled over the side, and it didn’t take her long to scramble up on it and climb onto his chest.

How to wake him, how to wake him... Do it too painfully, and he could catapult her halfway across the room without realising it. Too gently, and she’d be at it all day.

In the end, she decided to whisper in his ear. Not only did it have the advantage of putting her out of harm’s way, but it would be a delightful payback for all those times when he’d deliberately teased her by doing the same thing.

From her position on top of his pillow, the topography of the bed resembled a mountainous landscape. The sheets stretched flat over the broad expanse of his muscled chest, and dipped to pool over his groin. Then the land reared up to cover his bent legs, then dipped again to provide a downwards slope towards the end of the bed.

She walked carefully across the pillow, the soft surface giving way slightly under the gentle pressure of her feet.

“Len?” she whispered, speaking directly into his ear. “Come on, Len, time to wake up now.”

He let out a sleepy moan that was purely pornographic.

“Nbshwahrgh,” he grunted, moving his head away from her. Exasperated, she followed his head across the pillow.

“Rise and shine, sleepy head,” she cooed, stroking the rim of his ear with a hand. He let out another satisfied moan, and one of his hands flickered.

“Come on, Len, I need you to wake up for me. You can do that, can’t you? Come on now, time to open those big brown eyes of yours...”

She was distracted from her persuasion by the topography of the bed changing dramatically. A small hill was forming from previously flat land, and its growth rate seemed linked to her voice.

Interested, in a _purely_ scientific way, of course, she started up her persuasion again, this time reaching over slightly to stroke a small hand through his soft, dark hair.   
Sure enough, the small hill continued to grow as she purred into his ear, until it resembled a veritable mountain. Christine knew that her sense of scale was off, but she couldn’t help but be impressed. As one of his hands snaked downwards to palm the growing mound, she squealed in panic. This was going a little far, now.

The high pitched noise was enough to wake McCoy, who shot up into a sitting position.

“Whassat? Chris? You ok?”

 

McCoy looked around blindly. One minute he’d been dreaming about having his head in Christine’s lap as she tickled his ears and murmured sweet nothings, the next a loud squealing noise had woken him up.

A muffled noise caught his attention. Turning to his right, he could see one small but shapely leg sticking out from the gap between the pillows he used and those on the other side of the double bed. He moved the pillows apart slightly, and Christine pulled herself out of the abyss, tugging up her handkerchief toga. She looked red and flushed from her little tumble, he noted anxiously.

“Good, you’re up,” she panted, then flushed even redder for some unknown reason. “I need you to run me a bath.”

Her “bath” was his sink, filled with warm water and a dollop of liquid soap to create bubbles. She swam around the sink contentedly as he took the opportunity to hop in the shower stall and wake himself up. A quick blast of cold water at the end took care of any lingering effects of his dream; it wasn’t the way he usually dealt with himself in the mornings, but he was afraid that she would hear him take matters into his own hands, even if she couldn’t see through the opaque material of the shower stall.

He did the gentlemanly thing and looked away as he passed the bathroom sink, although the bubbles did cover her modesty. He dried and dressed himself in the main room, and she did the same with a dry facecloth and a clean handkerchief in the bathroom.

They were half way through breakfast (toast seemed to be the easiest option all around) when a chime at the door signalled a parade of visitors, none of whom seemed surprised to find Christine breakfasting in McCoy’s quarters.

Gaila and Uhura were first, with dozens of tiny outfits for Christine to try on. Between Gaila’s unexpected seamstress skills, and some quick and dirty replicator recoding on Uhura’s part, there were small science uniforms, casual shirts and trousers, skirts, dresses, scarves, belts...a whole treasure-trove of tiny fashion items. Somehow, there was even underwear, which Christine immediately grabbed and slipped on under the handkerchief.

McCoy left the women to the debate over flat or heeled boots to answer another door chime. There was Scotty with Yeoman Rand. Both were carrying an armful of gadgetry, and both had identical excited grins.

“We’re still working on getting you back to the right size,” Scotty said, laying his collection on the floor. “But until then, here’s a few things that might make your life a wee bit easier.”

Christine’s eye was immediately taken with a shiny red automobile, a model from a few hundred years ago.

“What’s this?” she said, as Uhura lifted her down to the carpet.

“Hop in!” Scotty said, beaming.

Christine opened the door and sat behind the driver’s wheel. A small red button on the dashboard glowed invitingly. Glancing at the encouraging engineer, she pressed the button firmly.

Immediately, the car shuddered to life. She pressed the accelerator pedal gingerly and the car started forwards. Pulling the wheel gently to the left and the right turned the car smoothly, and with her confidence increasing with every second Christine pressed down firmly on the accelerator.

As she shot around the room, gleefully swerving around furniture and sounding the impressively loud horn, Scotty explained.

“I picked it up as a present for my niece, so she could drive her wee dollies in it. I was going to make it remote-controlled, but I realised last night it was a doddle to convert to a working vehicle. It’s good for twelve hours use before you have to charge the battery.”

Christine slammed on the brakes and swerved to a stop.

“It’s fantastic, Scotty! Thank you!”

“That’s not all, when I had finished doing that, my thoughts turned to the present I had got my nephew.”

He fished around in the pile of technology and came up with a very old-fashioned aeroplane.

“You think the car is good, you wait until you’ve been up in this baby!”

Christine had the time of her life in the Tiger Moth model. She zoomed around the light fixtures, and took great pleasure in dive bombing McCoy at every opportunity. The controls were ridiculously easy, and landing was a breeze.

“The next time you have a check up, I’m definitely giving you a lolly pop,” Christine told the delighted Chief Engineer. “I’ll even let you pick the flavour.”

The rest of the gadgets included a miniaturised PADD that was fully compatible with the ship’s systems. It let her access the computer, open doors with a temporary override code and program the turbolifts. There were also extra-light collapsible ladders that she could use to climb onto furniture.

Christine used one of the ladders to scramble up onto the couch where Scotty was sitting. She pulled herself up onto his knee and sat there while she thanked him very sincerely.

“Is there anything else you need?” Janice asked, running through a checklist on her PADD.

“Crockery,” McCoy told her. “Cutlery too, and size-appropriate furniture.”

Rand nodded and made some notations on her PADD.

“I’ll try and get that arranged for you today,” she said, frowning as she moved items on her lists around.

“I could help,” offered Scotty, moving Christine gently off his knee. He caught Janice’s look, and smiled bashfully. “I like helping.”

Janice gave him a tentative smile, and Christine could _see_ the blush rising in both of them.

“Why don’t you go figure it out over breakfast?” Christine said slyly, ignoring the look Uhura was sending her. “I hear the mess hall does a good cheese and ham toasted sandwich.”

Janice’s eyes gleamed.

“Ooh, I love sandwiches,” she said, not noticing Scotty’s adoring look. “Especially toasted ones.”

Scotty jumped up, and had Janice swept out of the room before anyone could blink.

“You’re not exactly subtle,” Uhura said, rolling her eyes.

“Subtlety is lost on some people,” Christine said dismissively. “If the worst comes to the worst, they’ll have a good sandwich.”

Uhura shook her head, smiling. “I’ll see you later,” she said, glancing at her watch. “I’m due on the bridge now.”

“That’s a point,” Christine said, “We must be due in Sickbay about now.”

“You’re going to try to work?” McCoy said in disbelief.

Uhura slipped out quietly. You didn’t have to be a communications expert to see a major argument brewing.

“I’m not going to _try_ to work, I’m going _to_ work. There’s a difference.”

McCoy watched in disbelief as Christine picked through the piles of clothes and selected what she needed. He turned away as she discarded her handkerchief, and only looked back when he heard her boots on the metal ladder.

“Christine, I’m not trying to be hurtful. It’s just that you can’t be expected to complete your duties when you’re not...” he scrambled desperately for the right words. “At your physical peak,” he concluded.

Christine collapsed the ladder, opened the back seat of the car and threw it in.

“I know _that_ , idiot,” she snapped, slamming the door shut. “I know that I’ll have to leave all the physical work to the others. But I still have a working brain, so I can still do my paperwork. There are still things that I need to do.”

She stared up at him, defiance clear in every line of her face. He could have kicked himself for not realising earlier that there was fear there too. No wonder she wanted to work, it was the only thing in her life right now that was stable, that was normal.

“Come on then,” he sighed, palming the door control. “Let’s go.”

She started the motor of her car and careened out of the door, honking her horn loudly to warn unsuspecting crewmen that she was on her way.

“I’m going to have to start calling you Toad,” he called after her, shaking his head.

 

For the next three weeks, Christine’s car and aeroplane were often seen buzzing around the ship. Jim had lost all professional control the first time she had landed the Tiger Moth on the briefing table and taxied to a halt. By this time, Gaila had done some research and had kitted her out with flying goggles and an attractive leather flying cap. Kirk had howled with laughter and dubbed her Amelia Earhart, which annoyed McCoy because he had to go away and dig up the reference later.

Everyone on board seemed to be either working on getting her back to normal or providing ways of making her life earlier. Scotty had been tinkering again and provided her with a mini communicator. Spock oversaw the creation of a small medical tricorder, and complimented her on her work ethic. Jim gave her a replica motorcycle, which she had Scotty work his magic on. McCoy had a thousand fits whenever he saw her lean dangerously to the side as she took a corner at speed.

Chekov had spent more time buried in transporter diagnostics than on the bridge in the last few weeks. He was confident that an answer was in sight, but as there were no second chances, he wanted to make sure that his calculations had no margin for error.

Watching Christine perched at a miniature desk with her tiny PADD was becoming strangely normal, McCoy realised. She worked on top of his desk, and took care of the majority of the paperwork that a busy Sickbay caused. When she got antsy after being stuck behind a desk for days on end, he gave her inventory duty in the section of the cargo bay designated for their use. She flew her Tiger Moth in and out of the pallets, and sent data to the computer through her PADD.

Having her in his quarters was becoming normal as well; she had moved from his couch to the pillow opposite his. He was scared that he’d roll on her in the middle of the night and squash her flat, but she’d ignored and moved her own tiny pillows and duvet onto his bed.

He’d never tell her, but he slept better when he could hear her tiny breaths buzzing lightly in his ear. When he woke in the middle of the night, he’d watch her chest rise and fall rhythmically. When he drifted back off to sleep, his breathing pattern would match hers.

In the morning he’d run her a bath in his sink while she programmed the replicator to provide them with breakfast. They would chat as they splashed, and he had stopped turning away as he passed her to dry and dress. He often stood dripping wet, dabbing at himself with a towel as they argued over new Sickbay organisation techniques, or whether they should put a bet on Scotty and Rand making it past sandwiches in the mess.

It was _domestic_. And strangely attractive. As soon as she was returned to normal size, he’d tell her how he felt, he decided. It wasn’t as if it was a secret, not really. They both knew. Hell, if the size of the unofficial book was any indication, the whole damn ship knew. He’d tell her he loved her, and she could move into his quarters properly, and they could sleep in the same bed without any worry of accidental death.

Of course, they had completely skipped the part of the relationship that involved dating and wooing and getting to know each other. They had glossed over that and gone straight for the verbal foreplay and sexual tension, followed by cohabitation.

So when he returned to his room that night after a senior staff meeting to find her crying into her pillow with great heaving sobs, he didn’t have the first clue about what to do.

 

It was stupid, she knew. But she just couldn’t stop herself. One tiny snippet of an overheard conversation and she’d just lost control completely.

She’d been sitting in her gorgeous little cherry-red convertible in the turbolift, idly wondering how practical it would be to keep one on Earth, when two junior lieutenants from the Science division had entered. They were deep in conversation, and didn’t notice her sitting quietly at the back of the lift.

“No, seriously, can you ever see this panning out?” the blonde had said dismissively. “It’s been three weeks, and she’s still tiny. If they were going to find a way to turn her back they would have done it by now. It’s only a matter of time before she’s discharged and sent back to Earth.”

Her companion, a dark haired woman Christine vaguely remembered from the Academy looked dubious.

“Rumour has it that she and McCoy are sharing a room. He’s not going to let her just go back to Earth all alone.”

The blonde rolled her eyes.

“Oh please, like _that’s_ going to work out. Sooner or later he’s going to figure out that a freak like her isn’t going to cut it in the bedroom department. Watch how quickly she gets bounced off the ship then.”

The cruel words cut Christine to the core. She was so shocked that she didn’t even react when the blonde revealed her plan to seduce the newly-single McCoy after Christine was sent back to Earth. The women continued on their way, oblivious to the devastation they had caused.

Christine made it back to McCoy’s room, climbed onto the pillow that made up her mattress and just howled her pain into it.

She hadn’t considered _never_ returning to her proper size; she had just assumed that the lab devoted to it was taking its time in order to guarantee her safety. The thought of being forcibly removed from the _Enterprise_ horrified her, but if the team in the lab _couldn’t_ fix her then there was no other option open to her.

And then there was Len, who as the blonde lieutenant rightly surmised, would have to abandon any interest he might have had in her. Christine had adventurous tastes, but there was no way that they could ever have a functioning sexual relationship. And even if Len _did_ stand by her and insist on accompanying her, there was no way that she could let him. She wasn’t going to be the reason he abandoned a career that his hard work and vast intellect deserved.

It wouldn’t be _fair_. Her whole fucking life just wasn’t _fair_.

She was so busy wallowing in her own misery that she didn’t hear the door open, or notice Len’s footsteps as he approached the bed. It wasn’t until his weight caused the bed to dip slightly, and his hand appeared flat beside her that she knew he was there.

He scooped her up and held her to his shoulder as she continued to sob. He murmured in low tones and stroked her hair until her tears came out in hiccupy breaths. Her small hands clutched tightly at the material of his uniform top. She didn’t want to let him go, not for a second.

He shifted around until he was sitting propped up against the headboard. She was still clutching at his shoulder, and his hands remained firmly cocooned around her.

“You want to tell me what’s got you so upset?” he asked mildly, fishing about on the nightstand for a tissue. She accepted it and scrubbed her face dry before blowing her nose with an incredibly loud honking sound. He smiled, completely in love with the ridiculous noise.

“What happens if I never turn back?” she said quietly, her nervous hands shredding the tissue into tiny pieces of confetti. His hands tightened around her reflexively.

“Not an issue,” he said immediately. “They’re going to crack it any day now, just wait and see. Don’t waste a moment of your time worrying about it.”

Christine could feel the tears starting up again.

“How can I _not_ worry about it?” she forced out over the rising tide of sobs. “It’s been three weeks, Len! Three weeks! It’s never taken us this long to correct a problem before.”

She blew her nose again, and made a concerted effort to control her breathing.

“We have to face the idea that we might not be able to fix this,” she said eventually. “I have to start making some contingency plans. I’ll need to find somewhere on Earth that could accommodate someone like me.”

McCoy scowled, and his grip tightened again.

“We _will_ fix it, so it’s not an issue,” he ground out. “And if, _if_ , on the so slim it’s barely existent outside chance that this _can’t_ be fixed, then you’ll be going exactly nowhere. You’ll be staying here with me, where you belong.”

Christine smiled ruefully. If she had ever doubted his feelings, this was proof of his devotion. Which was exactly why she had to leave the ship.

“It’s a nice thought, love,” she said, reaching up to smooth the skin on his lips with a tiny hand. “But we have to be realistic. There’s no way that Starfleet would let me stay on board as a serving officer. And despite all the fuss in the newscasts, there’s still no ruling about dependents being allowed on star ships. Besides...” she trailed off, and looked away.

“Besides what?” McCoy asked firmly, using the tip of a finger to gently guide her face back to his.

Christine let out an impatient huff of air, clearly embarrassed.

“Besides,” she continued, blushing a fetching shade of pink, “With me this size, there’s no way we could work as a couple.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” McCoy drawled. “You being small enough to put in my pocket doesn’t seem to stop you from dictating my every move. That seems normal enough.”

Irritated, Christine smacked him none-too-gently.

“Ass. That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

His face took on a serious expression, and he moved his finger gently over her hair again.

“I know exactly what you mean, Christine, and it seems strange to be the one pointing out that sex isn’t the be-all-and-end-all of a relationship.”

Christine let out an exasperated breath.

“I know _that_ , thank you very much. I’m not an idiot, but I do have a pretty healthy libido and if the tenting in your boxer shorts every morning is any indication, so do you. Sooner or later we’re going to get frustrated with taking matters into our own hands. I’m not going to be the reason you can’t have a healthy relationship, Len. I love you too much for that.”

Blinking, Christine realised that she had let the l-word they had been dancing around for so long out. Too late to worry about that now though.

“So, you don’t think that I can pleasure you, Christine?” McCoy said, arching an eyebrow. “You think that you’re so unique that a mere man like me couldn’t get you there any damn time I want?”

His tone was fierce, but Christine knew that heat behind his words wasn’t fuelled by anger.

He shifted so that he was kneeling on the body of the bed, facing the headboard. He dropped her onto the pillows, the impact of the small drop forcing the skirt of her uniform to rise even higher up her legs. As she moved to straighten it, McCoy barked out “Stop. Lift your skirt up higher.”

She swallowed heavily, her fingers dancing nervously at the hem of her skirt. Taking a deep breath, she slowly hiked the short skirt further up her thighs.

“Is this enough?” she asked innocently, stopping just short of revealing her underwear.

“Higher,” he growled, his eyes not moving away from her prone form.

Again she moved the material up, this time giving a glimpse of her silky green underwear.

“Now?” she inquired, beginning to feel a familiar heat pool in the base of her belly.

“More,” he said, his voice beginning to show the strain of his restraint.

Emboldened by that, Christine reached down and yanked the whole dress off, undershirt and all. She lay back on the cream linen, displaying her body to its curvy advantage. McCoy reached out with a gentle forefinger, and traced the tiny straps of her bra, teasing the green material with the edge of his fingernail.

“Off,” he ordered.

Biting her lip, Christine reached around to the back and fiddled with the clasp. A moment of wriggling and her breasts broke free of their enclosure. She turned to throw the bra onto the pile of clothes on the pillow. She let her hands drift down her body and rest at the edge of her underwear.

“These too?” she said lightly, slipping two fingers underneath the elastic to stroke at her tiny clitoris. The underwear was already damp with her arousal, and her fingers moved slickly over the centre of her pleasure.

“Off,” he repeated, his voice hoarse with need.

She moved her hands down to undo her boots, but his finger barred her way.

“No,” he commanded. “Leave them on.”

Christine raised an eyebrow.

“Kinky,” she commented, but did as she was told, stretching back the elastic so the underwear sailed up and hit McCoy in the face. He looked amused, and more than a little turned on. He leant closer to her, and let out a controlled stream of cool breath.

Christine gasped as the cool air hit her directly on her aching clit and heavy breasts. She arched her back and moaned as he directed a second breath directly over her nipples, causing them to stand proudly from her body. He used the very tip of one finger to rub gently at them both, which caused her to writhe in bliss beneath him.

She had a moment’s respite as he leaned over to the other pillow and fumbled there for a second. The obvious bulge in his trousers loomed close to her and she gasped in pleasurable fear as she imagined working the zip on his trousers loose and plunging her hands inside.

The tempting bulge moved away from her as her returned to his original position, his hand closed tightly around something.

“Lay back down, Christine, and shut your eyes,” he said, his tone far more gentle than before.

She did so immediately, with no thought of resistance. She waited for a few seconds, tensed with anticipation, and then the sensations hit her.

A gentle tickle teased at her breasts and along the sides of her chest. It floated down her body, running its way along her long legs until it slyly licked along each foot. She let out a gasp and pulled her feet up instinctively, but a quiet growl from McCoy had her return to her original position.

The pooling of heat in her belly increased with every gentle flicker of McCoy’s mystery object. He teased her, sending little bolts of pleasure everywhere _except_ where she needed them most. Every time she moved a hand towards her clit he gently but firmly moved it away.

She got the message. Her oncoming orgasm was _his_ to give. Or delay.

She could work with that.

She had no idea how long he teased her; time really didn’t seem to have much of a meaning when her nerves were singing with such a powerful force. Eventually he slipped the mystery object up further between her legs, and it made contact with her hot, throbbing core. A combination of teasing strokes, another gust of cool air and the briefest contact between his finger and her tight nipples and her orgasm burst through her.

Maybe it was because of their year and a half of epic foreplay, maybe it was because of her three weeks of enforced celibacy, maybe it was just down to his skill. Whatever it was, the peaks of pleasure that she reached under his deft touch left her drained, unable to speak. He gathered her up again, and held her to his shoulder. She latched on to his uniform and twisted it firmly into her grip. His left hand held her steady, while his right hand fumbled with the zip of his trousers.

“You see what you do to me, Christine?” he murmured, his breath coming in ragged pants. He shifted slightly, then reached in with his right hand and pulled his red, engorged penis out into the cool air. Christine struggled out of his grip and hoisted herself further up his body until she could reach his ear.

She whispered dirty secrets into his ear, all of her private fantasies that she had concocted while she watched him across the room, working hard. She watched in fascination as his eyes closed and his body shook with the effort of delaying his orgasm. His fist pumped hard around his thick length, but Christine was able to break his control by whispering fierce words of encouragement in his ear.

He groaned loudly, spilling in messy spurts over the clean linen of the bed. He dropped down onto a dry spot, clutching her tightly to his chest. He wriggled out of his clothes, careful not to disturb her. They lay there together panting, each stroking the skin of the other gently. Eventually, Christine raised her head from his chest.

“What...” she began, but was cut off by a familiar tickle along the length of her back.

“Feather,” he said, showing her the mystery object. He laid it reverently on the nightstand, and returned to stroking her back and hair again. Christine laid small, fervent kisses on any patch of skin she could reach.

“Still worried about our sex life?” McCoy laughed, as she reached a sensitive spot.

“Hmm,” she said with fake concern. “I’m not completely convinced. I may need more... _persuasion_.”

Any reply he would have made was interrupted by the excited chirrup of both their communicators. McCoy flailed around the general direction of his trousers until he could locate his.

“Chekov here, Doctor McCoy. We have finally devised a way to restore Lieutenant Chapel to her former size.”

McCoy looked down at Christine, and raised an eyebrow in question. She smiled back, and returned her attention to his left nipple.

“You’ve been working awfully hard Chekov, you and all your team. Why don’t you have a good rest, and we’ll come by in the morning?”

McCoy gave a small gasp, and Christine laughed evilly.

“ _Late_ morning,” he clarified.

Ensign Chekov sounded dubious.

“If you are sure, Doctor,” he began.

“Yes!” said McCoy with great force. “I’m sure! Very sure! Congratulations on your excellent work! Now go away!”

He snapped the communicator shut and threw it to the other side of the room.

Christine looked up, amused.

“That was subtle,” she commented.

He rolled his eyes.

“As someone very dear to my heart once said, ‘Subtlety is overrated.’ Now keep doing that. _Exactly_ that.”

Christine giggled and continued on her quest to map McCoy’s chest with her lips and tongue.

Forget about her height, or the Tiger Moth, right here, right now? _This_ was the highest she had ever been. And she had a sneaking suspicion that she was never going to come down.


End file.
